


I Stuffed My Turkey for This?

by daisydiversions



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Gen, M/M, Slice of Life, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisydiversions/pseuds/daisydiversions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles always picks the cart with the gimpy wheel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Stuffed My Turkey for This?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kishmet for ~~bullying me into finishing this~~ all of the love and support.

“We’re buying gravy,” Derek tells him, setting his frown to let Stiles know he means serious business or something, like Stiles wasn’t given his vaccine to that face when it was throwing him up against a wall.

Well, it wasn’t the face that was doing the throwing. That would have been weird.

“Gravy is made of, like, 90% terrible. And canned gravy is totally eleventy times worse. That’s a lot of terrible, Derek. That is like being under water on your terrible.” 

Derek just puts the can in the cart and pushes down the aisle, as fast as werewolfly possible without arousing any more speculative looks than they were already getting and accounting for the gimpy front wheel. Stiles always picks the cart with the gimpy wheel.

“Yeah,” Stiles calls to him because, screw it, his father is already going to hear about this, so he might as well exert the maximum embarrassment factor on Derek in vengeance. “You can buy whatever you want, dude. I’m the one who’s going to be in the kitchen with Dina, and I’m not putting that crap on my table.”

The pointed rattle of Derek’s cart is the only answer Stiles receives.

Stiles doesn’t stick his tongue out, but it’s a close thing.

Since this is the seasonal baking aisle and they’re, like, barely into their shopping list of long, Stiles is pretty confident Derek is going to take a loop around the store on principle and meet him back here. He totally still needs Stiles for the cooking part of this endeavor unless he’s looking for the nice, traditional Thanksgiving pizza delivery option. 

Which he won’t because Stiles brought around leftovers from his Easter roast on a supernatural steak out (which would have been 300% more hilarious if it was actually steak, but not as heart healthy) and Derek knows now what he’s missing. 

 

Stiles uses perfectly seasoned, home-cooked meat on Derek Hale. 

_It’s super effective!_

 

So, yeah, Stiles, confident in his knowledge that he won’t be abandoned, grabs an empty basket from a stack at the end of the aisle and goes to stare at the spices and see which ones speak to him in nicest, sweetest, growliest voice, promising to treat him nice and put him to bed and ripe his throat out ever so gently if only Stiles will take it home. And, yeah, Stiles has a lot of problems. 

He grabs a bunch of stuff, including some ginger because it had been looking at him pointedly and it was either think about the state of his sanity for the rest of the day or give in. Give in to a spice, yup, totally normal behavior. And, like, all the cinnamon because it’s mother fucking Thanksgiving alright, and the quantity probably correlates to the millions of pounds of apples that Derek had grabbed and then glared at him, like Stiles was going to be opposed to _apples_. 

Derek is like that with all of the super traditional foods though, and Stiles totally gets it. The year after his mom passed, Stiles had been determined to make Christmas just as close to the same as possible without a resurrection. Shiny and perfect and bright.

Instead, Stiles had succeeded in breaking all the ornaments, excepting the paper and cloth ones that he’d crafted together in elementary school class, knocking the tree down over enough times that it was too depressing to keep up the tally, and decapitated their yard Santa.

It was totally the hap- happiest time of the year. Especially when Stiles had cried snotty tears all over his lo mein and his dad had gotten stupid drunk on homemade eggnog.

And this would be Derek’s first Thanksgiving without Laura.

So, overall, Stiles is rocking the understanding human pack member thing and will gladly take up the temporary mantle of den mother by feeding all of Derek’s surly teenagers to the point of death by turkey inhalation. 

It’s actually a bit thrilling, since Derek had _asked_ him. Cordially and with a minimal amount of teeth bearing, even. Like he’s a functioning adult or something.

And this, this is something Stiles can do for Derek, for the pack.

Derek loops back around, allowing Stiles to dump all his crap in the cart with a long suffering air and to drag him over to the organic aisle. 

Stiles has already ruled out attempting a glucose-free meal because he isn’t interested in fending off a mutiny this year, but there are some delicious crackers here that he wants for his cheese platter. 

It occurs to Stiles that this all makes him sound dangerously close to becoming one of those ladies that lunch and read Martha Stewart Living with the intent to actually attempt things (the Christmas issue totally doesn’t count though, okay, and last year’s gingerbread house was immaculate and so deliciously worth it), but he’s cool with that because he not-so-secretly loves pretty things. Like his Jeep. And spring afternoons. And, well, yeah, Derek. 

And speaking of, Derek fingers one of the next-step-down-from-industrial-sized cinnamon contains with something of a half-smile on his face, lips jerking up at the corners. Unsure, but willed on by muscle memory. Han Solo recovering from hibernation sickness. 

“Yeah, yeah, you big goof,” Stiles bumps their shoulders together as they fall into step. “Now, do you want pie or cobbler or _both_?”


End file.
